


Not Even Pallas, Nor Blue-Fevered Envy

by laulan



Series: 30-300 [5]
Category: Greek and Roman Mythology
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-10
Updated: 2013-01-10
Packaged: 2017-11-24 09:21:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/632845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laulan/pseuds/laulan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>You were proud, yes. You will admit that.</i> A retelling of the myth of Arachne.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Even Pallas, Nor Blue-Fevered Envy

**Author's Note:**

> This is part of a project where I wrote one 300-word ficlet for each day in September. Retelling myths and fairytales is one of my favorite things to do in the whole wide world, so it was only a matter of time before one showed up here. The title is from Horace Gregory’s translation of the myth from Ovid’s Metamorphoses. Warnings for spiders.

They sang of you, from Thrace to Crete. They sing of you still, but with laughter, now: the girl who challenged a goddess. The girl who was tossed from the arms of Athena to scuttle in corners and frighten children, that proud, headstrong thing.

The songs have it wrong.

-

You were proud, yes. You will admit that. But how could you not be proud? The nymphs themselves stopped their play to come watch you weave. The people in your village would stare, too, as thread bent like sunlight in your hands. _Arachne,_ they whispered, awe weighing down their words. _The best mortal weaver in our land. In the world!_

You tucked their words inside you with pleasure. In time, the watchers came from farther and farther, nobles and kings and even emperors who murmured that you were almost as skilled as the goddess Athena herself. By then your pride had swollen, a poisonous, bloated thing nestled inside your mind, and you laughed.

_Almost?_ _I am better than anyone._

-

She stood there, grey-eyed and olive-skinned, her dark hair curling over her shoulders, and your mouth went dry. Your heartbeat fluttered beneath the fragile skin of your throat, and desire flamed dry and hot in your belly. _Cruel Aphrodite,_ you thought, _to strike me now!_

You wanted to sit at her feet like a cat. You ached to put your head on her knee, to do whatever she asked. You would have been hers for a single word.

She offered only a hard-eyed look, and said, “A contest, mortal?”

-

They say it was pride that drove you to weave a prettier tapestry than hers, and mock the gods. You know better. It was love. You wanted to give her the best, a thing that no one else could.

Your reward: eight legs.


End file.
